


and the impossibility of your voice on the other end

by nortsapa



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: "and their families had to just keep on living without them?", "hey wouldn't it be fucked up if siestas only affected the players?", Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loneliness, Siestas, that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29013273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nortsapa/pseuds/nortsapa
Summary: Siestas can be hard too.
Kudos: 5





	and the impossibility of your voice on the other end

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "seeing daylight" by The Mountain Goats, off the EP Beautiful Rat Sunset.

She knew it was coming, that first siesta, so why did it hurt so much?

She should have been happy, that they were safe, that they were out of harm’s way for a couple of years.

But. She would’ve liked them there at her graduation. Or when she moved into her first real place. Or at her first real job.

They were there in a way, though, she thinks, what with the letters. 

Ones they had written her, just in case, ones she writes them, so they can be there when they wake up.

But a letter couldn’t dry her eyes when it all got too much, couldn’t clap a hand on her shoulder and look her dead in the eye, couldn’t straighten out collars or tie ties.

A letter couldn’t smooth her hair, couldn’t tuck a flower behind her ear, couldn’t play Nightnoise a little too loud over the whir of a cheap tabletop fountain.

A letter couldn’t replace their hugs, hiding behind her form during scary movies, couldn’t replace them asking for a story or a song or glass of water in the middle of the night.

The empty seats are still there. The quiet is still there.

That’s selfish, right? Wanting more than they could possibly give her, more than the sheer unfairness of it all? Wanting more time together, time not glued to a television screen, waiting to see if they were truly okay, if they could truly live to see another day.

That’s selfish, right? When they’re the ones who might not see tomorrow in their waking stretches, when they’re the ones who have to see her moving through time in the fast lane, when they’re the ones who are really suffering.

If they were awake, maybe she could ask. She’d want to. She’d want them to share a blanket with mugs of tea and talk through the big things. She’d want to be in their arms. She wants them here, but no amount of begging is going to bring them back. Not for another year.

She does what she always does now, rifles through that box for the right envelope, the right handwriting for the situation.

All too often now, she comes up empty-handed.


End file.
